


Are We (We Are)

by seasonschange



Category: Captain America (Movies), Kings (TV 2009)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Bottom Steve, Bucky Barnes Feels, Coming Out, Crossover, Daddy Issues, Homophobia, Impotence, Internalized Homophobia, Jack Benjamin Feels, M/M, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Plot With Porn, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Royalty/Commoner Pairings, Sexual Dysfunction, Silas is a class-A awful dad, Steve is a fangirl, Steve/Bucky Not Childhood Friends, They bond over their respective crappy lives haha, Top Bucky, Top Jack, closeted jack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-11 21:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4452392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasonschange/pseuds/seasonschange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack returns home after his spectacular rescue by a certain Private Rogers he can't seem to get rid of, only to discover that his father has already found him a picture perfect... replacement?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in that sunshine

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [We Should Just Kiss Like Real People Do](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3808264) by [L1av](https://archiveofourown.org/users/L1av/pseuds/L1av). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [uncensoredsideblog](http://uncensoredsideblog.tumblr.com) for her _inestimable_ support and for that google doc full of helpful annotations. You're the fucking best! If anything good ever comes out of this random polyamory plot bunny I got a while ago, it'd be all thanks to you (and any failure would be my fault entirely). Everyone should also go read L1av/[buckmebxrnes](http://buckmebxrnes.tumblr.com)'s fic immediately because it's the most amazing polyamory fic I've ever read and it's literally gonna change you. In the best of ways. I promise. Thanks for giving me your blessing to cite your work in here, by the way. I feel so unworthy _*drops Mjölnir like it's hot*_

* * *

 

The booming sound of a Bully-Class tank firing somewhere close jerked Jack back awake.

Jack's head was hung low between his legs where he'd been left kneeling on the ground, wrists bound behind his back. They hadn't left an inch of his body unblemished, and holding this position for so long had been  _hell_ on the welts they left across his back during their interrogation.

He didn't know when exactly he fell asleep, but after all the torments his body had been put through in the last 48 hours... he wished he had slept longer. Maybe forever.

Inside the bag they shoved over his head once they were done with him, the air was too hot and smelled of stale. And vomit. And his own body odor; a mix of old body fluids, dirt and fear. Jack was used to it all by now. It was only more discomfort on top of an already impressive pile of it, and it just _kept piling up_.

His breathing was loud and labored inside the bag, and he gave up on keeping his eyes open when he realized that hard as he tried, there was nothing he could see of his surroundings through the thick fabric. His left eyelid was also swollen enough to hurt like a son of a bitch whenever he merely blinked, let alone keeping it open.

A tiny buzzing sound near his right ear announced the return of the most bloodthirsty mosquitoes Jack had ever encountered. He shook his head reflexively, trying to get rid of it. These little monsters almost made him grateful for the bag over his head, and the three-days-old clothes shielding him from their bites. His neck, however, had been their favorite spot ever since he'd set foot on the front. 

He wished someone would give him a proper wash. And no,  _waterboarding_ didn't count — not if there was no soap involved.

Now that he was awake, Jack could feel his heartbeat again, except it was located right under the skin of his face. He couldn't help wincing at the unpleasant sensation, which in turn made all the cuts and bruises make themselves known again under the bandages they'd wrapped hastily over the worst of his head wounds, to stop the excessive bleeding.

Apparently they didn't want him to die from hemorrhage. At least, not  _yet_. Not until they were finished with him.

There were also dry tear tracks on his cheeks, the salty streaks they'd left behind tugging at the skin whenever a small moan of pain would accidentally tumble out of his dry mouth.

Despite his situation, Jack didn't spare a single thought about how undignified he had to appear. How he had cried and begged them to stop. Faced with the fear of experiencing so much  _pain_ , any sane man would crumble just the same.

At least he hadn't given the bastards _any fucking thing_. Not a single piece of relevant information had passed his sealed lips. After being stripped from everything that still linked him to the human race, Jack had held onto the only source of dignity he'd had left — his unbreakable loyalty towards his Kingdom. They had tried to take this last part of him away, but they could never reduce him to a coward, or a traitor. The bastards from Gath would have to  _kill_ him first before they could wring any secrets from the one and only crown prince of Gilboa.

Jack had experienced mind-numbing terror, pain and humiliation at the hands of his captors, and the memory alone was enough to bring fresh tears to his eyes. Jack let them spill without shame, because what use was it to hide them here, where nobody could see? When he had restraints biting into the flesh of his wrists, and the coppery taste of blood in his mouth; when his trembling, aching body never let him forget his dire situation? 

_"You're not a boy anymore, Jack. Only boys cry and call for their mommies. You're a man, now — it's time you act like one."_

Jack snorted at the memory of his father's words. They were always so vivid, the King's words. Always cut him so deep, where no one could see him bleed.

" _Fuck_ you, dad."

It was only thanks to the knowledge that the King couldn't hear him that Jack had the courage to mutter those words in the relative quiet of the tent. The past couple of days, he'd braved death and Gath's torturers. It made him feel braver than he had felt in ages. At least, brave in his own imagination.

Another tank fired outside, tearing through the quiet of the night.

Jack knew it had to be way past nightfall since he couldn't hear the usual sounds of the day like the animated conversations outside his tent, the sounds of tanks and men moving around in formation and the occasional scuffles between soldiers. He also couldn't hear the distant voices of  _his own_ camp, on the opposite side of the battlefield. There, he knew, the men were crouching in the trenches in the dark, buried in dirt to their necks, everybody sharing stories of their lives back home to try and keep each other sane while they waited for the order to launch the attack, and go lay down their lives for their country.

So far, not a single squadron; hell, not even a  _single man_ had been able to breach the wall of Bullies. The men all fell under the synchronized fire of the deadly machines then scientists of Gath designed a couple of years ago, when Gilboa still stood a chance of winning this conflict between the two countries. Now, nothing was less certain than the outcome of the Long War.

Jack wasn't sure if they knew who he was, but judging by the fact that they had executed his men to the last and chose to keep  _him_ alive  _—_  the probabilities that they knew who they were dealing with were frighteningly high. And if they had known from the beginning, then whatever he did (or did not) tell his torturers, he'd eventually end up with a bullet between his eyes, just like the rest of his party did. After the assassination of the King of Gath's only heir to the throne, five years prior to this day, Jack suspected there would be no room for mercy once they were done "playing" with him. Between the two kingdoms it'd been " _eye for eye and tooth for tooth"_ since the day they were both founded and the disputes over the borders had begun. 

When he'd enrolled, Jack had never imagined he'd _ever_ end up as a prisoner of war. It had sounded like something that could only happen to  _others_   _—_ not _him._ Not to the Prince.

He had joined the Army mostly to impress his parents, and the obvious pride they had taken standing next to him during his announcement speech about what had once been his father's duty becoming _his_ , and how it had now fallen upon him to protect this beautiful country from annihilation; that _spark_ in his mother and his father's eyes when they'd looked at him had momentarily satiated the bottomless pit inside Jack's heart that was always _starving_ for every scraps of recognition, and love.

Enrolling had also brought a lot of honorific titles to his name, too, and Jack couldn't deny the prospect of acquiring prestige by his  _own_ doing (and not only because he was born with it) hadn't had its own appeal, and hadn't weighed a  _lot_ in the balance when he'd made his decision.

But Jack had never once during his military service believed, not even for a  _single moment_ , that anything could happen to the crown prince. Even though his father had warned him beforehand of how rough his life at the front-line would become  _— "I hope it won't be anything you can't handle... will it?"_   _—_ if anything, he'd believed that the Army would be the  _safest_ place for someone like him. After all, he'd be surrounded by the most capable men in the whole kingdom.

Then the Prince of Gath had been shot during his stay at one of the Royal family's safe-houses, the hit done in the most impressive (and highly secretive) way, and Jack's security detail that used to be made up of two of his father's agents had been brought up to  _five_  men and women  _constantly_ trailing after him. It had been a pain in the ass to have all his comings and goings immediately reported to the King, but for once Jack had kept his complaints at a minimum, fully aware that ever since that hit, he would be in danger of facing Gath's revenge everyday for the rest of his fucking life. Or, until Gilboa managed to defeat Gath and wipe their rival family from the face of the Earth. _  
_

All in all, Jack had never felt  _safer_ than the day his party (along with his security detail) had been caught in that ambush across the border, and all of his men had been killed in cold blood.

In this relative quiet, behind his tightly closed eyelids, Jack could still see their faces. Laughing, talking, _living_... and then, the next moment, they were all looking at him for orders, their eyes wide open in fear as the enemy, trice their number, was suddenly jumping out of the surrounding bushes or falling down from every tree, silent and inevitable like death itself.

His men had stood no chance. Jack could still picture their faces _so well _—__  but their names, however, were already becoming a blur. He'd just never been good at casual comradeship with people who he didn't need anything from, and who needed nothing from him in return. So he had always been respectful, but distant. He wasn't sure if he regretted that, now. After all the less you got attached, the less it hurt. Or so they said.

And then before Jack could even  _process_ what was happening, he'd been wrestled to the ground and rendered unconscious by a solid hit on the back of his head with probably the butt of someone's shotgun. He could still feel a dull pain where he knew he had to be sporting a bump the size of his fist, if not something worst.

Jack bit down on his tongue to contain the rush of emotions threatening to spill out of him like a force of nature. It was useless, though, and soon as his chin started quivering, there were hot tears spilling out of his eyes again, and well might he bite on his tongue till he was tasting blood, there was no more stopping all the anger and regret from rushing out of his body in every possible way, completely unstoppable. 

His men shouldn't have died that day. And he shouldn't have been captured. They had sent reconnaissance drones on stealth missions all over the zone they were supposed to go through. They had been preparing this foray into enemy territory for  _months_.  _Nothing_ should have gone  _this_ wrong.

The faces of his brothers in arms, if one could call them that, were suddenly replaced by the face of Silas Benjamin, and Jack's jaw tightened to the point that it hurt. Oh, he could picture his father's disappointment as he was informed of the news  _so well_. His old face would contort so much he'd look like a wrinkled piece of parchment. He would then turn to his ministers and announce, with all the flourish and theatricality he had come to master through the years,  _"I guess we have to go save my incompetent moron of a son"._  

Above all else  _ _—__ maybe even above a painful and cowardly death  _ _—__  Jack dreaded his father's contempt, if they were ever to meet again. Jack had no doubt that a rescue party was already on its way, he was only unsure if they'd reach him on time.

But imagining the King's reception back in Shiloh... almost made him wish they'd be too late.

Jack had years of experience in putting up with his father's (and occasionally, his mother's) unrealistic expectations, and the subsequent letdown. But after all he'd been through, he wasn't sure if he'd survive yet another round of _"we expected better from you"_ and  _"you're a disgrace to this country and the crown"_ and, even once,  _"sometimes I wonder why we even bothered having another child after your sister"_.

Proof that all his current bravery was nothing but an illusion, the mere memory was enough to have him sobbing silently inside his fucking bag all over again.

 _Fuck_ , but he wished he could be _fucking done_ with the crying, already.

All of a sudden, there was a gust of cold air blowing by Jack's bare feet, and he heard a noise that sounded a lot like the entrance flap of the tent being violently opened. Jack's blood turned immediately cold with mind-numbing fear of the unknown, his heartbeat back to jack-hammering like it was trying to jump out of his chest.

The entrance flap made a soft thrashing sound, and then the peace and quiet was restored, as if nothing had happened.

Except Jack could now hear another loud panting over his own.

"Shit. Tell me you're still alive underneath that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've seen the show, maybe a _quick recap_ of the setting could still be useful?
> 
>  
> 
> _Alternate Universe, Kingdom of Gilboa (vs. Kingdom of Gath), City of Shiloh, King Silas Benjamin, Queen Rose Benjamin, Prince Jack Benjamin, Princess Peggy Benjamin, An Unknown Deity that communicates by Throwing Insects at People's Faces (the goddamn monarch butterflies lmao), Politics Everywhere, Team We-Hate-Gath-Because-Of-Reasons, Treason Is An International Sport, Closeted Homo Prince, Silas is a Shitty Dad, Queen Mother is Almost Worse, Everyone Wants Jack to Suffer & Forget His Homosexual Ways, Mooooooooore Politics._
> 
>  
> 
> (But if you haven't seen it, you probably won't understand much. Or maybe you will? I don't know? But give the show a try nonetheless, it's really great! Even though everyone is a giant dick....)


	2. where I gave myself to you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a lot for your kudos & kind feedback, always appreciate those a hella (◡‿◡✿) And sorry for the misspelled stuff, I usually come back and correct that _after_ publishing (go figure).
> 
> P.S.: _Fubar_ is a military term and stands for _Fucked Up Beyond All Repair._

* * *

"I hate night shifts."

Steve shrugged in acknowledgement, adjusting his helmet when it started slipping off his greasy hair. You did sweat a lot in this line of work.

He and and his friend Sam Wilson were sitting opposite each other in one section of the trenches, standing watch and hugging their assault rifles like the deadly weapons were their best of friends. It was an instinctive thing; you just held onto the only thing that kept you alive, and you held on tight.

Sam had been complaining _a lot_ about them getting assigned more night shifts than anyone else they knew, and Steve knew not to argue with him whenever he was in such a sour mood.

Sam was maybe hungry, too. He'd always get extremely bitchy when he was on duty on an empty stomach.

"Hey, you interested in an energy bar? I think I got one left."

Without waiting for a reply, Steve pulled it out of his pocket and threw it in Sam's general direction, hoping his friend would catch it somehow. The nights at the border with Gath were darker than Satan's butt-hole (Colonel Phillips' choice of words, not his), but they could still make out each other's faces. More or less. The most important was that the insignia sewn over the right sleeve of their uniforms — the spread wings of a butterfly — was _always_ visible, marking them as allies of Gilboa, and avoiding any confusion in the night whenever two different watch teams would come across each other.

"Thanks. Oh, _extra nutty —_ should have seen that one coming!"

Steve rolled his eyes as he listened to Sam peeling the energy bar open, then biting into the candy.

"Seriously? You're still not over that whole... gay thing?"

Steve threw a cautious look over his shoulder soon as the words left his mouth, eyes level with the ground of their camp stretching behind them and making sure no one was eavesdropping. But beside the few men sitting together in front of one of the tents a good twenty yards away, and the very distant sound of a tank rolling around from the other side of the field, they were alone.

Sam had told him times and _again_ how a soldier's sexual orientation wasn't treated as such a big deal in the Army anymore, but you could never be too cautious.

Steve's coming out was still something too recent for him to be entirely confident about it. He didn't feel like being gay was something shameful, but it didn't mean he was suddenly perfectly at ease with the fact that he now liked cock. Well, he wasn't yet sure about that part, since he'd never actually touched another man's cock _yet_ , but he was pretty sure he'd like it.

It wasn't as if his mom had reacted to his coming out like it was something wrong, and making things any painful for Steve. In fact, she hadn't even  _blinked_ when Steve had come clean about his new-found homosexuality (or maybe he was bisexual? He wasn't sure he still _desired_ women the way he was now attracted to men, though). She had slapped him with her dishcloth, then proceeded to hug the living crap out of him, muttering something about _'better late than never',_ and eventually telling him that she was proud of the man he was, and that being gay didn't mean he was now off the hook about the grandchildren he'd promised her. Steve had endured his mother's quirky show of support and affection with a blank expression, absolutely shell-shocked.

When he'd next told all his closest friends, he'd gotten the same kind of reaction: everybody seemed to have  _somehow_ known, since the day they'd fucking  _met him_ , that he _'couldn't possibly be totally straight'_. Here he was quoting his friend Wanda — who he had even  _dated_ a while back.

Despite the wonderfully accepting reactions of his mom and his closest friends, though, he'd been very apprehensive when he'd met with Sam back on home base, right before they'd had to leave for the front again. He had called him aside from the group of soldiers getting ready for the trip, so damn nervous and jumpy he was sure he had to have looked like a junkie during the worst of withdrawal, without mentioning the amount of sweat that had been pouring from his pores.

'Flabbergasted' had sounded to Steve like the perfect word to describe Sam the moment he'd dropped the news.

They had known each other since they were kids, both having grown up in the same village in the outskirts of the city, and Sam had seen Steve date girls since they were a pair of spotty teenagers. It was understandable that he'd had a hard time picturing Steve as a gay man.

Steve himself hadn't been keeping this whole thing a secret _on purpose_ , or lied to anyone. He'd truly believed he was straight for the first 27 years of his life. The moment he'd known had been instantaneous, and as unexpected as it had felt for Sam.

He had just went to a random club in the city, the very first night he'd been discharged for his two weeks of well-deserved vacation, not knowing that the club in question was accepting of both straight and gay crowds. That's where he'd seen the two men making out on the dance-floor.

And it had hit him like a punch to the stomach: the sight _alone_ had been the hottest thing he'd ever seen. And no pair of breasts, however skillfully revealed, could ever top that.

Steve had been unable to look away from the couple for the rest of the night. He should have felt embarrassment for behaving like a creep, but at that moment it hadn't mattered —he'd been too busy wishing he could be one of these two men; that he too could dance so close to another man's hard body, and thread his fingers through short hair. That he could feel another man's thick thigh spreading him open, rubbing demandingly against his crotch as they were moving to the beat of the song.

Driving back to their old farm house earlier than he'd first planned, he'd locked himself inside his room, his hard cock out of his pants and in his hand in record time, mind full of images of the two men grinding against each other and sucking each other's mouths, bathed in the stroboscopic lights of the club like a vision from another world.

Lying down on his back in his ridiculously small bed — after his growth spurt, he'd never been able to fit in it again without his feet dangling off the edge of the mattress —, Steve's eyes had almost naturally trailed to the old discolored poster hanging right opposite him on the wall, almost but not quite hidden under a handful of Steve's sketches, and some Army propaganda.

Steve had bought the magazine with the poster back when he was sixteen, and already all kinds of obsessed with the Royal family. Inside there had been a family picture of the whole Benjamin dynasty reunited, but also a couple of posters of the heir posing on his own. At eighteen, the Prince was already being publicly referred to as _"Prince Hottie"_ and the way he'd looked in his charcoal gray suit, with that superior smirk and those mischievous eyes, exuding all that self-confidence Steve could never achieve, it was no wonder every boy Steve's age had admired the crap out of the guy. 

But when he'd looked up at that poster,  _really_ looked at it, Steve had started to remember. He'd remembered the way those hazel eyes had made teenager-Steve weak in the knees when he'd first opened the magazine and come across the folded poster. It hadn't been about "admiration" or a desire to emulate the Prince — Steve had had a _crush_ on the guy, and hadn't even realized it until that day.

And after what he'd witnessed that night, it was all it had taken for Steve's treacherous mind to replace the two men on that dance-floor with himself and... the crown Prince of Gilboa, as he had last seen him in the newspapers. He knew for a fact that he would be a little taller than the Prince, yet in his fantasy he pictured the other man as the one crowding him and sliding his hands roughly around Steve's neck and then into his hair, forcing him to bend forward so he could claim Steve's mouth, in complete control of Steve's body.

Steve had had to throw his arm over his face and bite the inside of his elbow to muffle his delighted gasp, hyper-aware of his mom sleeping in the room one floor below.

Never before had he gotten so aroused just by picturing himself making out with someone. Whenever he had needed to blow some steam off, he'd always stroke himself fast and hard with barely any need to picture somebody else with him, and if he ever did, it was always with naked women, and totally sex-oriented. But this had been different; almost like a naive teenager's very first foray into sexual fantasies — he'd closed his eyes and pictured the Prince ( _Jack_ , he'd thought with a full-body shiver) kissing him like he couldn't get enough of him, and then maybe letting Steve set the pace for a while, allowing him to trail open-mouthed kisses down Jack's temple and the side of his neck, right until he was stopped by the collar of Jack's expensive shirt, surrounded by the other man's smell and taste. _  
_

The simple idea of sucking at the skin of Jack's throat, of sucking at _another man's Adam's apple_ and imagining all the sounds that'd earn him had made Steve harden even more inside his fist, becoming almost too big for his own hand. He'd been giving himself those long strokes from base to tip that Steve's body equally loved and hated, teasing himself and keeping himself right on the edge, desperate to make the fantasy _last_.

Everytime they would kiss and touch, they'd get closer, bolder, more intimate,  _hungrier_ — and Steve's engorged cock would spurt so much precome he almost thought he was coming.

When he'd been keeping himself for so long on the knife's edge he knew he'd be sporting his own biting marks all over his arm the next day, Steve had had his strangest revelation yet, and it had been so goddamn _hot_ his climax had felt like a tidal wave rushing out of his body, wreaking the most pleasurable havoc in its wake. _  
_

Out of nowhere, Jack had pushed Steve around until they were standing back to front, Jack's arms hugging Steve from behind and bringing Steve's ass flush with the hardness tenting Jack's suit pants. Both Steves, fantasy-one and the real-one, had let out the most undignified _whine_ , real-Steve grinding his ass down onto his mattress, the friction against his bare ass and balls, and the power of his imagination enough to have the fingers of his right hand tightening painfully, stripping his wet cock like his life suddenly depended on it.

Jack had bit into Steve's earlobe next to catch his attention, and whispered —  _"you'd like that, huh? Feel me inside you, let me fuck you till you scream?"_

Steve had no idea how gay men talked dirty to each other but that line, coupled with the thought of having another man _taking_ him had been more than enough to bring him over the edge. He'd come in his cupped hand with an intensity he'd never experienced before, shaken to his core with the realization that, for the first time, he didn't want to be the one doing the fucking. _  
_

Afterwards as he'd lain with a handful of his own mess and his chest heaving underneath his soaked shirt like he'd just run a marathon, Steve had felt so ashamed of what he'd done that he'd _sworn_ to never again allow himself to think of Jack Benjamin as anything else than the Prince. After all he needed to set realistic goals in his life, and especially his  _love_ life that was about to get so much more complicated.

He didn't need to be lusting and entertaining hopeless fantasies over the very _heterosexual_ son of the _King_ , for crying out loud.

"Nope, I'm still not over _'the gay thing'_. I can't believe I never caught on, man! And with that poster you _still_ got hanging back at your place? I should have known!"

Cheeks catching literal fire at the mere mention of the poster, Steve reached out and gave his friend a half-hearted punch, hoping that'd be enough to get him to shut up. Which, of course, Sam saw coming from a mile away because he was so much faster than everyone, and he deflected the blow effortlessly, laughing like a crazed hyena.

Sam's laugh was drowned by the noise of a Bully firing for the second time that night, the shell exploding a moment later somewhere on the no man's land between the two country borders. The enemy had been unusually aggressive of late, firing these precautionary projectiles as if they expected an imminent attack, and were trying to discourage any attempts. But they had to know Gilboa's weaponry didn't allow them any type of serious attack after dark. Their night vision devices were absolutely useless on the minefields surrounding both camps, whereas in daylight the soldiers had way more chances of detecting an irregularity in the ground.

Nobody invaded from the front-line anymore, anyway. It was all about being there and showing Gath that they were not ready to surrender... yet. Also, they needed to keep the Bullies at bay, which was Sam and Steve's job whenever they were assigned to stand watch. Both had indeed a rocket launcher in addition to their rifle, lying somewhere close-by in the trench with them. After years of training and some more of actually fighting on ground, they were both capable of recognizing the sound of a _fast_  approaching Bully from _miles_ away. However, nobody had ever been able to take a Bully down, the damn tanks always too fast for their rockets.

In the quickly restored silence, Steve moved around a bit until he was lying a bit more comfortably against the curve crudely dug into the earth, getting ready to finish their shift in tense but quiet apprehension.

"Admit it, you've always wanted to bone the guy."

Steve groaned, slumping in defeat against his rifle, all to Sam's obvious delight.

So much for the quiet.

"Hey, guys. Who're we boning?"

Steve's pout morphed into a grin when Staff Sergeant Lang, their unit's chief officer, jumped down to join them into what they called 'the Ratway'.

Off duty, Scott was an amazing guy to hang out with. He had a great sense of humor, mostly self-derision, and since he was older than the two Privates he'd often give them advice whenever they'd fuck shit up. Which, surprisingly, they did a lot, even though they were always serious about the Army. Plus, he was the father of one adorable kid that had stolen everyone's heart on base whenever her mother would drop her by so she could see her daddy, and Steve was absolutely in love with that little girl. He'd even been thinking about naming his own, future, potential ( _very_ potential, now) girl "Cassie", too. So being friends with Scott had quite a few perks, despite the age difference.

But once he had the uniform back on, well, _it depended_. Sergeant Lang could be a real bastard when he was in the mood.

Tonight looked like one of those times where it was O.K. to fuck around and stay 'at ease'. Scott wasn't a fan of unnecessary formalities, even less so at  _fuck_  knew what hour of the night (or most likely, of the very early day). If he greeted them casually instead of using their ranks, it meant the coast was clear.

"C'mon, who've you always wanted to bone?"

"Nobody."

Scott turned to Steve with a confused smile, but Steve shook his head. No way was he telling their Staff Sergeant about any of this. He threw a warning glare in Sam's direction, but he couldn't be sure he would be seen.

"Prince Jack Benjamin," Sam blurted out in a sing-song voice, like the dirty traitor he was.

Scott leaned back right next to Steve and crossed his arms over his chest. "Oh well, can't say I've never considered it, too."

Steve could almost  _hear_ Sam's jaw when it dropped to the ground. He wasn't laughing anymore. Steve too was a bit taken by surprise. Scott had a  _daughter_ , after all.

"What? He's charming, and gorgeous, plus he's _filthy_ rich," Scott started listing off very seriously, making both Privates crack up.

"Steve has a poster of him in his room," Sam added in the same matter-of-fact tone.

"Wilson, I swear I'm gonna shoot you in the ass!"

"Well, well, Rogers. We've been keeping secrets from our chief officer?" Scott teased good-naturedly, bumping Steve with his shoulder and enjoying the Private's discomfiture immensely. "Please wait until you're in private to 'shoot anyone in the ass', though."

When Steve couldn't come up with a witty comeback, he felt Scott lean over. "Hey, it's alright, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. You know it's all fine by me. You have a picture of that sexy devil, you should be glad. I had to look at Silas' grumpy mug hanging above the fireplace everyday since I was a kid."

Both Scott and Steve's fathers had been in the army, and their sons had naturally followed into their steps. But whereas Steve's dad had been killed when Steve had been too young to remember, Scott's father had been one of Silas' favored counselors once upon a time, and the old Colonel Lang still held a lot of admiration for the King. 

Although he understood his point of view, Steve couldn't condone Scott's denigration of their King. He preferred to remain quiet than appear like an overly enthusiastic royalist.

"Lemme tell you, if I could I'd have traded him for his son in the blink of an eye!"

Steve rolled his eyes, ignoring the way Sam's shoulders were shaking again.

"Well, it doesn't matter either way since the Prince is as straight as they come."

Steve spoke without any bitterness. There was, after all, nothing he could do about it. Even if they could  _ever_ meet, although Steve doubted anyone would want anything to do with a simple Private like him, especially someone from the Royal family, the most they could be to each other was distant acquaintances; all polite smiles and dreadful formalities. Always reminding each other of their ranks.

I, commoner. You, next in line to be the fucking _King_.

"There's been those rumors a while ago, though," Sam started, but Steve cut him off with a long suffering sigh, "You know I don't believe whatever bullshit you can read in the tabloids. They're just written by people paid to drag everyone in the mud. I'll only believe what the Prince has to say himself. If he says he's straight, then that's it."

Sam opened his mouth, ready to argue, but once again he was interrupted.

"Actually," Scott butted in, "I came to share some bad news with you."

"We're listening," Steve was quick to assure, grateful for the change of subject.

"Yeah, so we've just heard about what happened to the 107th; remember that top secret incursion that's been planned for months? They say the whole unit's fallen into an ambush a couple of days ago, maybe less, and the sons of bitches from Gath are currently keeping some of them hostages. Crux of the problem is — no one knows _where_."

The two Privates listened to their chief officer's announcement, their faces grim at the news of another defeat for their side.

"What's strange is that even if we managed to find where they've been kept prisoners, the orders are currently that all men remain on ground, and no rescue party is to be deployed. It's highly unusual," Scott finished with a pensive look on his face, brow furrowed.

Steve remained silent while Sam took out his anger on a big clump of mud, kicking it until he'd reduced it to dust. His brain was too busy trying to bring together that new piece of information with something that'd been bugging him for the _exact_ last couple of days. The coincidences were just  _too_ _obvious_ to ignore.

"Sorry for being the bird of ill omen," Scott eventually said, all traces of his good mood gone. "I'll go see now if I can help locating our guys. Hope the rest of your shift goes smoothly, I will keep you updated."

"Thank you, sir," both soldiers said in unison.

Once Scott had climbed out, Steve almost immediately crawled over to Sam's side and snatched the night vision goggles sitting on top of the other man's head.

" _What the fuck?_ " Sam startled.

He had to shift so he could follow Steve's movements as he threw his helmet on the ground, then slid the goggles over his eyes and started surveying the dark field stretching ahead of them.

Steve swore under his breath. As expected, those were for shit. He couldn't see much, and not far enough to be able to tell how the enemy camp was disposed exactly. That was the kind of intel only higher ranks were privy to.

But he could make out the wall of Bullies perfectly, so that was at least something he could work with.

After a while, he noticed the way a couple of them were standing a bit back from the rest of the formation, and appeared to be circling the same area over and over. As if  _guarding_ something.

"Earth to Rogers?" Sam prompted when he got no reply for too long.

"I think they're... yeah, I think the hostages are right over... there," Steve muttered almost to himself, pointing at somewhere on the other side of the minefield.

Sam snorted.

"Yeah, right."

Steve took the goggles off and dropped them on the ground beside him. He then started unbuttoning his uniform, shrugging it off under Sam's now dumbfounded stare.

"You're actually serious! Man, wait! Wait, wait, wait, wait up!"

Sam reached out and grabbed Steve's arm, preventing him from taking off his shirt next. Their eyes met, Steve's blues hardened by determination and resolve, Sam's brown ones filled with worry, and confusion. 

But for Steve there was no time to waste, especially when their brothers and sisters were right  _there_ , and maybe in urgent need of assistance and care for the wounded ones.

"Sam, let me go."

"You're not gonna do that, you're outta your goddamn mind! Steve!"

"I  _know_ they are there, Sam."

"Well, maybe, just let me go find the Sergeant and—"

"Don't you understand," Steve shook his friend's hand off and finished hastily stripping down to his undershirt, "there's no time to waste, who knows if they'll still be alive when we finally get clearance to go and fucking rescue them! Plus, nobody's going to believe me."

"Try me! Tell me how you can be so sure the hostages would be kept right under our noses!"

Steve sighed, crouching to look for the discarded googles. He put them back on Sam's head a bit forcefully, ignoring the other man's protests.

"Remember how jumpy the Bullies have been lately? I noticed they started this sort of precautionary fire two days ago, while we were standing watch in this same spot. Why would they do that, I thought. Why act as if they're expecting us to have a reason to charge at them, right now? And tonight I got my answer: they have our soldiers, and they know we'll be coming for them!"

Sam adjusted the goggles over his head nervously, still looking like he was about to jump at Steve and force him to stay.

"That sounds a bit far-fetched, Steve, don't you think?"

Steve shrugged, grabbing his rifle and climbing nimbly out of the trench. 

"Wait, I lied, it's  _a lot_ far-fetched! Steve!"

Sam made to follow right after Steve, but the latter grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him away from the edge of the trench.

"Sam, no. I need you to stay here and cover for me, O.K.? I'll have more chances if I'm on my own."

"You have _zero_ chances to begin with, you suicidal _asshole_!" Sam yelled from the bottom of the Ratway.

"Just shut up and keep track of me. If you can, that is."

Steve smirked at Sam's indignant cry as he emerged again, head level with Steve's knees where he was still crouching.

"Oh, I can keep track of your fat ass. Now if you're really doing this, you focus on staying alive! You'd be no use to me if you come back in a plastic bag."

Steve nodded and reached down to grab Sam's outstretched hand. He made sure to convey in that handshake that he'd perfectly understood what had been said between the lines.

_Come back alive because I care about you._

Turning on his heels, Steve took a deep, steadying breath. He momentarily closed his eyes, only long enough to say a quick prayer and hope God would deign hear him out.

He couldn't discern much when he looked right ahead, but he didn't regret the goggles. He'd chosen to rely on his own sight for this mission, for his eyes were far less encumbering than the heavy apparel. He also knew the places they'd buried their own mines by heart, for having placed quite a lot of them himself. It had been his punishment after talking back to Colonel Phillips.

Sometimes Steve had troubles with authority. Times like right now.

He also knew there were the same type of weak spotlights over at the enemy's camp, that were only useful if you were standing right next to them, and couldn't benefit anyone outside the perimeter of the camp. He'd use those to spot the soldier's footsteps in the mud, and avoid their traps.

Standing up until he was half bent, Steve slowly started making his way forward, praying the whole time that he wouldn't hear the characteristic "click" under his foot that meant he was about to get shred into little pieces. Times like those, he had to wonder what was the meaning of it all. The Long War, the people dying or ending up terribly mutilated on both sides — and for what? At the end of the day, was it really worth it?

Another deep breath, and Steve forced himself to clear his mind. Now was not the time for doubt. He had to stay absolutely focused on the mission, or he would end up dead, along with the hostages if he didn't hurry the fuck up. 48 hours were a long time at the enemy's hands.

Crossing their side of the minefield took some time, but Steve reached the metallic fence marking the end of the Gilboan territory sooner, and with far less troubles than he'd expected. He climbed over it as quickly and as silently as he was capable after years of intensive training, and then he was in Gath.

Crouching and squinting at the ground, Steve started making his way through another minefield but this time completely unknown, and his progress was now a lot slower. It took him maybe more than a couple of hours of observing and comparing and painstakingly choosing which path was safest, before he was close enough to make out the lights of the camp. He'd steered clear of every Bully he'd heard moving lazily around, never actually seeing one. Steve couldn't believe his luck, but he also had no time to spare thinking too much over it. His mind was currently entirely focused on the hostages, and the best way to get them out of there.

He didn't  _exactly_ have a clear plan on how he'd get them out of Gath yet, but he was sure it'd come. The best plans were the ones people came up with in the heat of the moment, anyway... right?

There was enough light now for Steve to distinguish the soldiers' footprints, and all he had to do now was to crawl after them to the camp.

Approximately an hour later, Steve came across his first Bully, the tank rolling over him at a fast speed and driving away without even noticing him. His white undershirt had turned black from the dirt, and Steve suspected that so had done the rest of his body from crawling around in the mud for hours.

That was, basically, the best of camouflages.

Heart beating fast and adrenaline rushing through his veins, Steve finally reached the point where he'd noticed the unusual activity. And he could cry with relief when he spotted a rather large tent set at a certain distance from the rest of the camp, with a tank parked right next to it. The engine seemed turned off, and the tank itself abandoned, so Steve proceeded to crawl underneath the machine and rest there for a couple of minutes.

Peeking from his convenient vantage, he found the entrance of the tent only a few feet away from the tank. Steve could only pray he'd find the surviving members of the 107th inside. They were probably keeping them all alive for future "interrogations" — if they hadn't already started. Steve shivered with disgust at the idea of torturing another living thing. He was proud of Gilboa's refusal to resort to such extremes. There were no prisoners of war on Gilboa's side. Only body counts.

Wedging his rifle in place under his armpit, Steve crawled from underneath the tank like a black devil slithering out of its den.

He had to thank God for Gath's blind trust in its Bullies, which meant no soldiers standing watch anywhere to be seen. Gath had apparently grown  _too_ secure in their defense, and lowered their guard. Steve had absolutely no complaints.

Steve wasted no time outside, undoing the laces holding the entrance flap closed and jumping inside the tent, trigger finger ready.

What he found inside was, to say the least, _underwhelming_.

The tent was indeed spacious, but aside from an empty table and some boxes piled up in a corner, there wasn't much to see. There was a small lantern hanging from the ceiling, casting everything in a yellowy glow.

Except for the barefoot man kneeling in the center of the tent, a black hood over his bowed head and hands bound behind his back.

His beige uniform was torn, and two insignia's had been ripped off his left sleeve — Gilboa's wings and the second one, representing the soldier's rank. And he appeared to be covered in dark patches and splatters that Steve easily identified as blood.

"Shit. Tell me you're still alive underneath that."

Steve rushed to the prisoner's side and started by loosening the string at the base of the hood, then carefully pulling it off the man's head. 

"Oh, thank God."

The hostage was alive. His head was wrapped in bandages and the left half of his face was completely black and blue, left eye so swollen it didn't appear like he could even open it. And judging from the amount of blood covering him from head to toe, and the way his head slumped against Steve's shoulder, he had to have endured a lot more mistreatment.

"It's O.K. now, I'm gonna get you out of here," Steve told the man in a hushed tone, pulling out his pocket knife and moving behind the man to cut the plastic ties around his abused wrists. "Do you know where the others are?"

The man spat blood before shaking his head, letting Steve manhandle him until he was more or less standing up.

"All dead." The man's voice was raspy and barely above a whisper, clearly broken after whatever 'special treatments' his tormentors had put him through. "Only me."

Steve bit down on his lip in shock. This man's whole unit had been killed, maybe even in front of his eyes. It was yet another blow, after the news of their capture. Still, one survivor was better than no survivors at all, Steve decided.

"Alright, let's get you out of here, then."

Steve slid an arm around the man's middle to offer him some support since he seemed to have some trouble standing on his feet, but soon as he'd merely touched him the man winced and shuddered so violently he almost fell right back on his knees. Steve had to catch him by the sleeve of his jacket to help him find his balance again.

"Careful... the back. Hurts."

Steve nodded in acknowledgement and put his arm over the man's shoulders instead, watching out for any more signs of discomfort.

"Feet, too," the man groaned when Steve tried to direct them toward the exit.

Looking down, Steve noticed the man had left bloody footprints on the earthen floor.

" _Shit,_ sorry."

Steve experienced a very brief moment of gut-wrenching incertitude at that discovery, standing frozen with the shorter man leaning against his side for support and having absolutely  _no clue_ how on  _Earth_ he was going to get this man back to Gilboa alive if he was too badly wounded to even  _move_. 

But the doubt only lasted for a split second, and then he was back in control of this rescue operation.

"Can you climb on my back?" Steve asked with some trepidation, because if the answer was no his only solution would be to punch the guy unconscious and carry him like a sack of potatoes over his back.

But Steve didn't wish for things to come to that, for he didn't know the extent of the man's head injuries. He could cause him more harm by making him loose consciousness; that much he'd been taught during first aid class.

The man nodded, pallid lips tightly shut. There was a thin trickle of fresh blood seeping through the bandages over his right temple, but Steve chose not to mention it. The quicker they reached their own camp, the quicker the man's wounds would get professional care.

Steve crouched and helped the man climb on his back, standing back up only when he could feel the man's arms squeezing tight around Steve's broad shoulders, holding on for dear life. Rifle in one hand and the other supporting the man's ass — there was no way around it, and no time to be awkward about it either —, Steve finally made his way to the entrance of the tent and led them both outside into the chilly air.

Although Steve had had no clear plan on how he'd bring everyone back to the camp, the moment he'd spotted the abandoned tank an idea had popped at the back of his mind, and now finally coming in handy.

The injured man didn't weigh much, so it wasn't hard to get them both inside the narrow opening of the tank. Then it was only a matter of picking and prodding, and trying out every goddamn button and gear stick until the engine came to life beneath their feet with a loud purr.

"Well... let's hope this works," Steve announced when the tank started moving, completely missing the way the man stared at him in horror, all color draining from his face.

* * *

 

Alarms were blaring inside the tank when they finally drove through the metallic fence between the two borders, and somewhere behind they could hear the far more terrifying sound of the alert siren blaring at the enemy's camp. 

There had been some serious bumps on the road when they'd driven over at least five mines, and Steve was astonished the thank was still more or less standing. The Bullies were really something else, he'd to give them that.

Soon as they were on Gilboan grounds, the engine unexpectedly died on them with one last jolt, leaving them to walk the rest of the way on foot. From Steve's personal estimations, that had to be a good two maybe three hundred feet of minefield. That was approximately the size of a football field they had to cross before they were saved, and one of them couldn't even fucking stand on their feet. 

It was madness, and as Steve was helping the man get out of the carcass of the tank, he noticed that the man's movements had become even more sluggish. He was also paler than the dead, and his skin was sickly cold to the touch.

"It's gonna be alright," Steve reassured him when he had to crouch and offer the wounded soldier another piggy back ride. "The worst is behind us," he continued, trying to block out the apocalyptic-like siren piercing his eardrums even from afar.

He couldn't hear nothing else with that cacophony, and there was cold sweat dripping down his brow when he thought of the Bullies they'd be soon sending after them; if they hadn't already. Steve wouldn't be able to hear them — not before it was too late.

"It's alright, we're almost there," Steve yelled over his shoulder so he was sure to be heard, and almost swallowed his own tongue when he couldn't take another breath fast enough.

His body was finally starting to feel the strains of everything he'd accomplished tonight, and with another adult man lying heavily on his back, he was panting like a dog about to give itself a heart-stroke. Where he'd been light on his feet on the outward journey, he was now so heavy on the trip back that his feet kept sinking deep into the wet earth, and pulling out was always a great effort, coupled with the constant risk of slipping and ending flat on his face with no chances of getting back up.

But most dangerous of all, they were losing precious time while Steve was battling against the mud.

It felt like a true miracle when the softly lit outlines of the camp finally appeared before his eyes. After that, Steve couldn't stop showering the other man with words of reassurance and hope, forbidding him to give up or lose faith now that they were so close to the safety of the camp; at times even commanding him to hold on and not make the amount of trouble Steve had gone through count for zilch.

"Halfway there, soldier," Steve said between two heavy intakes of breath.

"Almost there... I can... see the barracks from here."

"It's alright, now, you'll be alright."

"Hold on, we're almost there _._ "

"Almost... _there!_ "

And then, he'd heard it. The last sound so many soldiers had heard before being blown out of this world. The sound of a speeding Bully.

There was nothing Steve could do to avoid the inevitable, but he refused to give up on hope just yet; not after working  _so hard_ to stay true to the one rule he'd always admired the Army for —  _leave no man behind_.

So with what little energy was still left in his body, Steve slowly turned around and faced the Bully directly.

He'd nothing left anymore. All the fight and all the bravado and all the patriotic enthusiasm had been sucked out of him, leaving nothing but a very weary man, who _just_ wanted it all to  _be over_ _._ He just wanted to make sure the man whose life depended on him would get to return home safe and sound. Nothing else mattered anymore.

When the Bully came to a halt right before running them over, Steve's knees almost gave out from the sheer nerves-wracking turn of events. He'd expected that much, though. Gath seemed to want that soldier alive for a reason, and Steve had counted on that inexplicable piece of information.

"What do you want?" He yelled at the suddenly dead-silent machine, getting the feeling that he was addressing a wall. "You want _him_? Is this what you want? _Over my dead fucking body, motherfuckers!_ "

Steve disentangled the wounded man from him and tossed the man on the ground, ignoring the man's cry of pain. Better to not have him in the line of fire if anyone decided to jump out of there and start shooting.

Then the Bully came roaring back to life, and Steve knew the 'negotiations' were over and the decision had been made. They were both about to die.

"You could still reach the camp if you hurry," Steve informed his wounded brother in a slightly quieter voice, knowing the man would still hear him.

Looking over his shoulder, Steve saw the other shake his head no where he was lying on his back, staring up at him with an expression Steve couldn't make out.

It was a strange thing that passed between them, then; some kind of bone-deep understanding, even though both men couldn't even see each other's eyes and guess the other's train of thoughts. Maybe it was something the Army taught them all; this strange communion that happened on the battlefield.

 _Leave no man behind —_  but stay together... till the very end.

"Sorry I _—_ "

Steve never got to finish that apology when he heard the deafening whistle of a rocket tearing the air above their heads.

Next thing he knew, he was jumping on top of the other man, grabbing him and shielding him with his body from the ensuing explosion.

Pieces of white hot metal rained around them, but none ever fell close to where they were lying still as a pair of statues, holding their breaths and praying it'd be all over soon. Steve felt the blast of the explosion and the subsequent heat, but it wasn't enough to knock any of them unconscious, or cause them any injury. And after he was sure they were out of danger, he stood up and hauled the other man over his shoulder without even stopping long enough to ask if the other man was feeling up to it, the destruction of the tank acting like a mental boost, fueling him and giving him an unexpected surge of strength and will to _survive_.

They had been given a reprieve, and Steve was damn sure going to take advantage of it. He wasn't going to stand there with his thumb up his ass waiting for the next Bully to charge them. That rocket had to be a lucky shot, for they were still too far from the usual line of fire of their camp.

In his haste over the last hundred of feet separating them from their salvation, he almost stepped on a couple of mines, only avoiding them by a _hair's breadth._

He hadn't even reached the trenches yet when he heard the voices of Sam and Scott and a couple more soldiers, all yelling different things at him and none of their words truly reaching his clouded brain. The moment Steve spotted their figures out on the field, he ran toward them with the very last spark of energy his body could muster, and finally  _collapsing_ at their feet from exhaustion.

He only came to again when he was carefully dropped off onto a spare bed in the camp's infirmary.

"Who... the rocket?"

"Who do you think?" Scott's voice floated somewhere next to him, the man himself coming into view a moment later. "Your buddy Wilson's aim is truly something. Said if he got you killed by mistake he wouldn't mind much, though. Something about being mad at you for leaving him behind, if I understood everything correctly."

Steve tried to smile, but his mouth refused to obey. So he just laid there, corners of his mouth simply twitching, deeply aware of his aching muscles screaming at him to go back to sleep. But there was still something important he needed to share before he could do that.

"There's... Bully... at the fence. It's completely fubar but, if anyone... the tech is still intact... could be useful."

Scott looked down at him with a mix of surprise and amazement.

" _That_ could be _fucking_ useful, yeah! I'll tell the Colonel you brought him a Bully for his birthday. But seriously now, you focus on getting some rest, Steve."

And this time, Steve decided it was best to obey, sinking right back into oblivion.

His last thought was that he'd forgotten to ask about the hostage, and swearing to himself he'd check on him the next time he woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Sorry for staying so close to canon, I promise that after a couple more chapters I'll _finally_ start writing my own thing, especially Bucky's storyline! I just like the show a lot so it's hard not to recycle some of the plot; oops!  
>  2) I know close to nothing of the way the US Army works, and I've been doing the minimal Google researches for this story. If you're qualified in that field and spot any truly _outrageous_ bullshit, feel free to notify me.  
>  3) What is realistic nighttime? What is conveniently-lit-Hollywood-nights? What???? (basically they all see everything in the dark because they're all part feline). Also, of _course_ you can survive shit blowing up right in your face. _Ofc._


End file.
